Dave is RRRRIIIIIPPPPPED
Alex Wins the (Mental) Contest
Yesterday, on the way to soccer practice, Alex wanted to race his soccer ball against my soccer ball down the big hill that leads to the park; playing the role of the good father, I did not push my ball as hard as he pushed his, but though Alex's ball took an early lead, it met extra resistance in some high grass that my ball avoided, and so my ball surged past his and rolled much farther into the field-- but when I claimed my victory Alex denied me, and when I pointed out that my ball went faster and farther, he said that to win the race, you had to get your ball to land on the (oddly enough) exact spot that his ball had landed on.
Bow Down to Our Insect Overlords
Ian's first three years could be titled Portrait of an Entomologist as a Young Man; it's not that just that he likes to spot, collect, hold, and observe bugs, bees, worms and spiders-- he actually thinks about them: yesterday, after discovering several ant hills in the garden, he looked up at me and said, ominously, "the ants are mad at us" . . . and when I asked him why he said, "because they like to bite us" which makes some sort of sense, but I definitely had a vision of Them! when he said it.
Darth Vader Would Be Scary as a Whale
My kids can sing the Darth Vader theme song in the voice of just about animal: a sheep is "baa baa baa baabuhbaa buhbabaa" and a pig is "oink oink oink oinkoinkoink oinkoinkoink"-- but yesterday Alex tried it as a blue whale and although I admire his spirit of artistic experimentation, I would have to say that his impression of a cetacean is pretty poor.
Alan Partridge: Too Droll For Some
Whenever Catherine goes out, I plan to watch whatever we have from Netflix (now it's this show The Riches, with Eddie Izzard and Minnie Driver-- so far it's excellent) but every time instead of watching, I go up to bed the same time as the kids, read, and then fall asleep within minutes-- which is pretty pathetic-- but I think I can only watch television with other people; in fact, I can't remember the last time I've watched a TV show or a movie alone . . . probably last year when Catherine gave up on The Alan Partridge Show and I kept watching (because Steve Coogan is priceless).
My Children Cooperate in a Jailbreak
Two scary things happened yesterday:
1) I learned that my red running shorts are "not sexy" and look "very eighties"-- and the fact that they have netting (so you don't need to wear underwear with them) didn't seem to impress anyone in the English office;
2) I came home to find Alex and Ian pretending to sleep on Ian's floor, and when I asked them how Ian got out of his crib, Alex said he helped him get out, by stacking several laundry baskets and then using a large stuffed Winnie the Pooh as a ladder-- and the scary thing is not that Ian escaped, it is the bigger picture: the natives are starting to cooperate.
There Will Be Milkshake Drinking
We finished There Will Be Blood last night; at first Catherine relegated me to watching the end of the film on the laptop so she could watch the two-hour finale of The Bachelor, but then she decided that I looked too depressing, sitting in a straight-backed chair with headphones on, watching the one of the bleakest movies ever made, so we watched the end together-- and my final comment on the film is this: I swore off butter after watching Last Tango in Paris, and now Daniel Day-Lewis has ruined the milkshake.
Don't Worry, That Guy Who Got Dismembered is Just a Minor Character
During story time, my son got upset for a moment when the King of the Elephants died from ingesting a poisonous mushroom, but then he realized that it wasn't Babar who died, but a minor character and he didn't care anymore, just as I have lost all feeling for the oil workers who keep getting killed in increasingly gruesome ways in There Will Be Blood (which is pretty good, but slow-- we are on day three of viewing it).
The Subway Is Byzantine
My last two trips to New York I have fared very poorly on the Subway System: previously, we took the B instead of the D on the way to the Met and ended up in Queens-- and this was certainly our fault, and alcohol consumption may have been to blame-- but this time even local Manhattanites were shaking their heads: after we ascended many stairs with the toddlers in tow, there was an 8 by 11 piece of paper instructing us that the A and the C were running on the local lines because of construction, and then after descending many stairs and taking the A we found ourselves whizzing by the 81st St. Museum stop, and then we kept going and going and finally we disembarked at 125th and took the downtown A to 59th then switched again to the uptown C to get to the Museum (it was funny hearing Alex saying "Why can't we catch the Local C?), and so on the way back we figured we had it down-- just take the C, take the local and we were guaranteed to stop where we wanted-- but as the D rolled by the conductor shouted out her window, "TAKE THE NEXT D! THE C IS ONLY RUNNING ON THE EXPRESS!" which we did and then switched again (it was easy, the train was waiting) but still . . . in the greatest city in the world should they be relying on taped up pieces of computer paper and shouting as their method of information dispersal?
DNA, Horizontally and Vertically
Microbial taxonomist Carl Woese says that in the good old days-- before archea, eukaryotes, and bacteria-- life shared its genes horizontally, there was no separation of DNA material, and evolution proceeded at a rapid, communal rate in the primordial soup, but then bacteria isolated itself and its intellectual property and the Darwinian age began (and lasted several billion years) and evolution moved slowly and separately; now, that time is coming to an end, the cultural revolution begat the bio-tech revolution, and once again, genetic material is being shared horizontally-- and I think this means that you shouldn't worry about that modified tomato that stays ripe for a month after it's picked because soon it will also be able to talk to you.
Pain or Sepsis?
Just worked up a sweat removing a splinter from Alex's foot-- it took the two of us to hold him down.
Emphasis is Everything
The documentary My Kid Could Paint That is about a precocious four year old abstract painter named Marla Olmstead-- and there are two ways to interpret the title: My Kid Could Paint That or My Kid Could Paint That . . . and that makes all the difference.
Do Kids Dream of Electric Robots?
Lots of sleep-related problems this morning: Alex had his "worst dream ever" about a giant man-eating robot (which, not so coincidentally, is what Ian wants for his birthday-- Alex said the idea "got into his head") and I rolled over in a weird way while I was sleeping last night and squashed my left testicle and it feels like someone kicked me in the jewels.
Gladiators Make Me Sleepy
Spartacus is the first Stanley Kubrick movie I've ever bailed on-- otherwise, I've seen them all (the furniture got me through Barry Lyndon and the nudity got me through Eyes Wide Shut).
Did You Sneak a Peak?
An old student spotted me while we were out Friday night, and it turns out she now teaches in Edison-- and what Catherine and the group thought was odd (and in retrospect, it is kind of funny) is that this petite girl was displaying a bodacious amount of cleavage, and the first thing I said to her after she asked "Do you remember me?" is "Of course . . . you and your friends made that "13 Ways of Looking at a Bra" video" and she remembered exactly what I was talking about-- she made video parody of a Wallace Stevens poem "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" with her two wacky friends, but to my wife and the ladies it appeared that I was commenting upon her ample rack.
Naked or Nude?
If you like looking at naked ladies in the woods, then Grounds for Sculpture is the place for you.
Women's Clothes Are Weird
Even though Stacy is several inches taller than me, her track jacket does not flatter my figure.
Enough Already
Last night I went to my first retirement dinner, and it made me want to retire-- would anyone like to pay me my salary so I can retire?
Sorry Mr. Murphy
Tomorrow is senior cut day, but it is done East Brunswick style-- the parents call the kids out sick so they don't get in trouble-- but it still reminds me of when I cut school with friends and we got caught and I had to meet with the vice-principal at NBTHS, who-- coincidentally-- is now the principal at East Brunswick-- which sort of makes me feel like I never left high school (although I didn't get in much trouble for cutting, my dad had coached him.)
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